Nickem was a little red-haired man about forty, who wrote a good flourishing hand, could endure an immense amount of work, and drink a large amount of alcohol without being drunk. His nose and face were all over blotches, and he looked to be dissipated and disreputable. But, as he often boasted, no one could say that “black was the white of his eye;”—by which he meant to insinuate that he had not been detected in anything dishonest and that he was never too tipsy to do his work. He was a married man and did not keep his wife and children in absolute comfort; but they lived, and Mr. Nickem in some fashion paid his way.
There was another clerk in the office, a very much younger man, named Sundown, and Nickem could not make his proposition to Mr. Masters till Sundown had left the office. Nickem himself had only matured his plans at dinner time and was obliged to be reticent, till at six o’clock Sundown took himself off. Mr. Masters was, at the moment, locking his own desk, when Nickem winked at him to stay. Mr. Masters did stay, and Sundown did at last leave the office.
“You couldn’t let me leave home for three days?” said Nickem. “There ain’t much a doing.”
“What do you want it for?”
“That Goarly is a great blackguard, Mr. Masters.”
“Very likely. Do you know anything about him?”
Nickem scratched his head and rubbed his chin. “I think I could manage to know something.”
“In what way?”
“I don’t think I’m quite prepared to say, sir. I shouldn’t use your name of course. But they’re down upon Lord Rufford, and if you could lend me a trifle of 30s., sir, I think I could get to the bottom of it. His lordship would be awful obliged to anyone who could hit it off.”
Mr. Masters did give his clerk leave for three days, and did advance him the required money. And when he suggested in a whisper that perhaps the circumstance need not be mentioned to Mrs. Masters, Nickem winked again and put his forefinger to the side of his big carbuncled nose.
That evening Larry Twentyman came in, but was not received with any great favour by Mrs. Masters. There was growing up at this moment in Dillsborough the bitterness of real warfare between the friends and enemies of sport in general, and Mrs. Masters was ranking herself thereby among the enemies. Larry was of course one of the friends. But unhappily there was a slight difference of sentiment even in Larry’s own house, and on this very morning old Mrs. Twentyman had expressed to Mrs. Masters a feeling of wrong which had gradually risen from the annual demolition of her pet broods of turkeys. She declared that for the last three years every turkey poult had gone, and that at last she was beginning to feel it. “It’s over a hundred of ’em they’ve had, and it is wearing,” said the old woman. Larry had twenty times begged her to give up the rearing turkeys, but her heart had been too high for that. “I don’t know why Lord Rufford’s foxes are to be thought of always, and nobody is to think about your poor mother’s poultry,” said Mrs. Masters, lugging the subject in neck and heels.
“Has she been talking to you, Mrs. Masters, about her turkeys?”
“Your mother may speak to me I suppose if she likes it, without offence to Lord Rufford.”
“Lord Rufford has got nothing to do with it.”
“The wood belongs to him,” said Mrs. Masters.
“Foxes are much better than turkeys anyway,” said Kate Masters.
“If you don’t hold your tongue, miss, you’ll be sent to bed. The wood belongs to his lordship, and the foxes are a nuisance.”
“He keeps the foxes for the county, and where would the county be without them?” began Larry. “What is it brings money into such a place as this?”
“To Runciman’s stables and Harry Stubbings and the like of them. What money does it bring in to steady honest people?”
“Look at all the grooms,” said Larry.
“The impudentest set of young vipers about the place,” said the lady.
“Look at Grice’s business.” Grice was the saddler.
“Grice indeed! What’s Grice?”
“And the price of horses?”
“Yes;—making everything dear that ought to be cheap. I don’t see and I never shall see and I never will see any good in extravagant idleness. As for Kate she shall never go out hunting again. She has torn Mary’s habit to pieces. And shooting is worse. Why is a man to have a flock of voracious cormorants come down upon his corn fields? I’m all in favour of Goarly, and so I tell you, Mr. Twentyman.” After this poor Larry went away, finding that he had no opportunity for saying a word to Mary Masters.
XV
A Fit Companion—For Me and My Sisters
On that same Wednesday Reginald Morton had called at the attorney’s house, had asked for Miss Masters, and had found her alone. Mrs. Masters at the time had been out, picking up intelligence about the great case, and the two younger girls had been at school. Reginald, as he walked home from Bragton all alone on that occasion when Larry had returned with Mary, was quite sure that he would never willingly go into Mary’s presence again. Why should he disturb his mind about such a girl—one who could rush into the arms of such a man as Larry Twentyman? Or, indeed, why disturb his mind about any girl? That was not the manner of life which he planned for himself. After that he shut himself up for
